Lord of Blood
by Rahvin Dashiva
Summary: The tale of Varakash Morkhur, an ancient Blood Dragon, amongst a world changing web of ambition and plots. When the vampires rise once more, who will oppose them?
1. Prologue

Lord Of Blood

Prologue

Varakash Morhkur, Scion of Abhorash, Blood Dragon, held his sword against the Slayer's neck. Anger and defiance burned in the Slayer's eyes, but Varakash could taste his underlying fear, the same fear that all mortals, no matter how long-lived, shared.

"You are defeated, Slayer," Varakash said, softly.

The Slayer gritted his teeth. "So be it, Vampire. I go to my death with honour."

Varakash tilted his head at this. It was rare to find one among the mortal races possessed of such grace in defeat. "You do not beg, nor make pleas for mercy." It was not a question.

The Dwarf grimaced, his throat working against the cold steel of the Vampire's sword. "I am a Slayer. I do not fear my death."

"Interesting…" said Varakash, almost to himself. "You are the first mortal I have yet found who has not begged for met to spare his life, Dwarf. And your skills in the arts of combat are prodigious."

Varakash lifted his sword away from the Dwarf. "You may return to your Hold, Slayer. You have earned your life today. Leave now, and you may keep it."

The Dwarf rubbed at his throat where the Vampire's sword had drawn blood. Varakash felt his infernal hunger rise, and crushed it ruthlessly. He would not give in to the thirst that he hated so much, that he had fought against since the day he had been cursed with unlife.

The Slayer spat. "I need no Undead abomination to give me my life, Vampire. All I desire is a warrior's death." His fingers twitched as his hand edged towards his broad-bladed axe, lying on the ground beside him.

Varakash turned from the Dwarf, walking slowly down the mountain trail. "Return here in one year, Slayer, and you and I will have our reckoning. There, you may find your death."

The Dwarf did not reply, and Varakash had taken another half-dozen steps before he heard the whisper of the Dwarf's axe cutting through the air. The vampire turned with inhuman speed, and his sword flashed out to block the Slayer's descending axe. Varakash could see the Slayer's muscles straining as he tried to complete his strike, but the Vampire was by far the stronger of the two, and his sword held the axe immovably.

"I gave you your life, Dwarf," Varakash said calmly, "do you refuse it?"

The Dwarf spat. "I will not allow you to escape, monster! By Grugni, I swear I will cleanse the world of your filth!"

Varakash lashed out with one silver-armoured boot, a gleaming blur faster than the eye could follow, and kicked the Dwarf in the chest, sending him flying backwards. The Dwarf thudded heavily into the rocks lining the trail.

"You will have your chance, Slayer, one year from now. Such an honour is bestowed only upon my finest opponents, a second chance to earn their lives. Or," he added, as an afterthought, "their deaths. You cannot defeat me now, Slayer. Spend your year wisely, and hope that you will have improved enough when we next meet."

The Dwarf raised his head sluggishly, obviously disorientated from the sudden blow. He grasped for his axe, but it lay meters away from him, beside the Vampire's feet.

By the time he was recovered enough to stand, Varakash Morkhur, Scion of Abhorash, Blood Dragon, was long gone, disappeared into the mist that shrouded the mountains.


	2. Rise of the Dead Parts 1 to 3

**Chapter one: Rise of the Dead**

**Part one**

"Lord Morkhur," said the thrall, a powerfully-built warrior in gleaming steel plate, "we must find shelter. Daybreak is only hours away."

Varakash Morkhur glanced at the thrall. "Daybreak, like fate, is not fixed, Reinholdt. It can be changed, delayed, even halted altogether."

Reinholdt met the Vampire Lord's gaze for a second, and then turned away with a nod. "Yes, Lord. I will seek out the others." Reinholdt left, walking fluidly despite his armour.

Varakash placed a hand on his sword, a rusty, battered length of steel with a bent cross guard. He had once carried a magnificent silvered longsword at his waist, but those days were long gone. Now he was but a shadow, a wraith, insubstatial in the great tragedy of life.

He stood atop a rocky outcrop, staring into the roiling blackness of the thick clouds. The lives of mortals appeared as incomprehensible to him as the darkest depths of the clouds. The Slayer troubled him particularly.

Until now, Varakash had thought it impossible to find a mortal unafraid of death. That he would find one here, in the World's Edge Mountains, was a likely indicator of their rarity. It seemed suitably fitting, thought Varakash, that this individual would be a Dwarf. Their tenacity and stubbornness were infamous, as was their honour. This combination was almost ideal for evading the shadow of death that had cast its pall over the World.

Varakash turned, dismissing the thought. Almost year ago, barely twenty miles from this spot, he had fought the Slayer. In a month, he would do so once more. For now, though, he had to reach shelter before the sun's light became too strong for even his dark powers to conceal.

He stepped down from the outcrop, sending his mind down, under the layers upon layers of dirt and stone, deep into the earth, feeling for the dead. His pale lips twisted into a small smile. The dead lay thickly here, victims of countless battles, Orcs, Goblins, Dwarves and Skaven, heaped atop one another over the years. If the Dwarf proved less than honourable, there would be no shortage of bodies.

A faint whisper of leather against rock, the slightest disturbance of the crisp night air, each undetectable to human senses, alerted Varakash to the thrall's return. Reinholdt stepped from the shadows under a rocky ledge.

"Lord Morkhur, the others are returning. They will be here soon," said Reinholdt, making a slight bow. Such had never been the custom in Varakash's time, but he did not discourage the habit. The path of the Blood Dragon was a harsh one, and discipline came in varying forms.

"Very well, Reinholdt. Assemble the others and create a shelter."

Reinholdt bowed again. "Yes, Lord Morkhur," he said, and turned sharply on his heel. His boots made a soft _whisper-click_ on the rock as he left to inform the other thralls.

Varakash turned to look once more into the clouds. He had called the towering formations, but he did not control them. So it was with everything. Staring into the clouds, waiting for his thralls to arrive, he went back, back into the tumult of his memories, thousands of years of blood and death.

Part 2

_The City of Lahmia, four and a half thousand years ago…_

"What is wrong with our Lord?" asked Varakash quietly.

The man opposite him, a tall, powerful man holding a two-handed sword in a guard stance, frowned. "Who knows? He hasn't been out of his quarters for days."

Varakash drew his own weapon, a notched broadsword borrowed from the armoury. He settled into a defensive stance, waiting for the other man to move first. "I can't think what started it, either. One day he was fine, the next he was… well, like this. He won't eat or drink, and he allows no-one near him except for the Queen."

The other man grimaced. "What does the Queen hope to do for our Lord? He needs a healer, not royal scrutiny."

"He and the Queen have been friends since childhood. It does not surprise me that she is the only one he will see. It is also rumoured," he continued, "that she is a powerful adept of the magical arts."

The other man snorted. "Pah. Rumours only. The Queen of Lahmia is no witch or sorcerer. They stay were they belong; in Nehekara. We have no need of them here."

"Walach, you should be more tolerant. Sorcerers have their uses."

The other man, Walach, laughed. "Yes Varakash, they do. Targets."

Varakash attacked in a blur of motion, catching Walach off-guard and slicing a fresh cut across his chest. Varakash retreated, putting his weight onto his back foot. Walach gritted his teeth at the wound, and tightened his stance.

"It is you who is the target, Walach," Varakash taunted.

Walach's grimace twitched. "That was a dishonourable blow, Varakash. I was not prepared."

Varakash shrugged. "That, my friend, is your problem, not mine."

Walach did not reply, but instead stepped forwards, swinging a heavy blow for Varakash's stomach. Varakash stepped into the strike, sliding Walach's large blade along his own smaller one until the two were face to face.

Walach pushed and stepped back, breaking the lock. He lunged, but checked it at the last moment, swinging in low instead. Varakash only just managed to block the attack, and took a hasty step backwards. Walach followed up immediately with a series of powerful slashes, forcing Varakash back even more.

Varakash blocked a vicious horizontal slash at his neck, and moved forwards with it, twisting to bring his sword to bear. Unable to manoeuvre his larger blade, Walach tried to retreat, but Varakash followed him, striking out with a triplet of blows that Walach barely avoided.

Walach dived to the side, rolling as he landed and coming up in a guard stance, one knee on the floor. Varakash followed, lunging in with a low thrust at Walach's stomach. Walach smashed Varakash's sword to the side with a heavy blow and stood, bringing his sword up with him in a deadly slash.

Varakash threw himself desperately backwards, landing in a clumsy roll. He came up, guard raised, and found Walach standing in front of him. The point of Walach's greatsword was inches from Varakash's throat.

"I win again," said Walach. "You need more practise."

Varaksh sheathed his sword. "That was a good fight; especially that little trick you pulled at the end."

"Trick?" said Walach. "It was no trick. That was pure skill."

Varakash snorted. "Right…"

Walach threw his sword into a corner, and Varakash winced as it clanged to the floor. "You could at least put it back," he said reproachfully.

"Varakash, that's the cleaner's job. Do you really think that Captains of the Queen's Guard are expected to clean the practise rooms like common servants?"

"The rack is right by the door," protested Varakash. "It's hardly any effort. This is where you fall down, Walach. Honour and skill is fine, but the discipline extends to everything, not just combat."

"Maybe so," said Walach, "but I'll just stick to beating you every time we fight."

**Part 3**

_The World's Edge Mountains, present day…_

"We are ready, Lord Morkhur."

Varakash turned. Reinholdt was standing behind him. "Very well."

He stepped into the centre of the trail. His thralls were assembled around the edges of the wide path, ten pale sentinels wrapped in cloaks the colour of dried blood that flickered in the harsh wind.

He swept his eyes slowly over them. Each had been with him for over a thousand years, powerful vampires in their own right, sired from his ancient blood, and Varakash had trained them rigorously in the disciplines of combat.

Varakash spoke, his voice soft, yet cutting through the low howl of the wind. "My Accursed Lords, our destination is near. The Silver Pinnacle lies less than a hundred miles away. Soon, we shall enter the Halls of the Night, and dine with our Queen. Our journey is nearly at its close."

Reinholdt stepped from behind Varakash, and addressed the Accursed Lords. "Urgency is not as vital as it once was, my brethren. We no longer have need to travel under this constant veil of darkness that our Lord has summoned. There is time to rest, to recuperate from the rigours of travel. A shelter shall be created." He turned to face Varakash. "My Lord, do you wish to lead?"

Varakash nodded, and walked past Reinholdt. "My Thralls, a shelter shall be created like no natural formation could mirror. It shall be a shelter of the dead, and it shall be formed from the dead." He raised his arms, and his long, white hair flew out behind him at the movement. "Release your power, my Thralls. Seek out the dead within these ancient mountains."

He felt the Vampires extend their magical abilities as one, drawing deep of the billowing winds of magic. He felt the metallic tang within his mind as their power snaked through the rocks and earth, coiling around the long-dead bodies that lay, decomposing, beneath the surface.

A hiss escaped Varakash's lips as he flexed his own abilities, releasing his power down, into the ground, feeling the multitudinous dead that lay, buried by time and the weather, below the rocks. "Now, my Thralls, raise the dead. All of them."

As he spoke, Varakash sent his power coursing through the dead, invading their bones and flesh, animating them with dark power. He drew them to the surface, his power cracking the rock around them. Around him, his Thralls did the same, each summoning as many as they could upward, out of the rock.

He gave one last push of ethereal strength, and a decayed, gaunt, hand burst from a widening crack in the rock. The zombie clawed its way out of the ground, followed by a dozen others, each emerging from a different crack. They were pushed out of the way by more zombies emerging from the same cracks.

The zombies summoned by his Thralls surfaced, surrounding those that Varakash had called, a few at first, and then more, until the trail was crowded. Skeletons appeared behind the zombies, older corpses further decomposed. Dirt fell from aged, cracking bones to lie thick upon the ground.

Varakash stopped summoning, and turned his power fully onto the creatures he had called. Creaks and groans filled the sharp mountain air as the dead shuffled to line the edges of the trail, forming a wall across the path twenty meters either side of Varakash. More followed, until the wall was ten thick, bodies pressed so close together there were no gaps.

His Thralls ceased summoning, and directed their minions to follow Varakash's. The dead clambered atop one another, forming an arching wall. The wall stretched high into the air, curving inwards until it seemed that it must fall. Zombies formed pillars around the centre of the wall, supporting the flaking corpses. The last few zombies, Varakash's remaining creatures, clambered over the outside of the wall, lying flat over the top and sealing the shelter.

Varakash released his hold upon the clouds, and the sun's light broke through, drawing groans from the corpses. The Vampires withdrew their powers. The corpses fell limp, supported by each other. Silence filled the stale air within the shelter.

"Now we sleep," Varakash said, softly, his voice echoing strangely around the corpse-shelter.

His Vampires lay in the dirt, settling into the limp sleep of the dead. Stillness stole across their features. They made a circle around him, guarding him even in their sleep. Varakash lay down in the centre of the shelter, and blackness overcame him as his eyes closed and he finally let himself succumb to the darkness that waited at his heart.


	3. Rise of the Dead Parts 4 to 6

**Part 4**

Gorthek looked around the Great Hall, his tall, flame-orange hair swaying with the movement. The thanes of Khazad Vulkhrund were assembled around the massive throne that dominated the Hall. The ten thanes were clad in thick leather jerkins, trousers and boots. Each held their weapons, polished steel great axes and hammers, at their waists.

On the central throne sat a thickset Dwarf. He wore a large, horned helm that shone in the flickering torchlight, and a huge, rune-engraved hammer rested across his knees. His long, grey-brown beard was bound with white cord.

He spoke. "What have you to tell us, Slayer Gorthek?"

Gorthek set his jaw. "I bring you word of the Uzkular, King Thorlek. A powerful Vampire lord wanders the mountains to the north."

Growls sounded from the Thanes. The King leaned forward in his throne. "You have seen this Vampire?"

Gorthek nodded. "I fought him myself; a year ago. It is my shame that I was unable to defeat him." His fingers traced the chipped blade of his axe unconsciously.

The King raised an eyebrow. "How is it that you are still alive if you could not kill the Vampire?"

"He left me for dead. He gave me his word," Gorthek spat, "that he would return to that same spot in one year, and we would have a reckoning." He ran a hand across the ragged scar that the Vampire had given him. It ran from the base of his neck to his armpit, a barely-avoided deathblow.

Thorlek looked hard at Gorthek. The King gripped his axe. "And you wish us to interfere with this?"

Gorthek snarled at the implicit insult. "Never! I will fight the Zangunaz-Rik alone, as honour demands! I come to warn you of this threat, and you insult me?"

King Thorlek held his hands out, his axe forgotten. The tails of his beard swung as he shook his head. "Then what would you have me do?"

"If I should fall at the hands of the Vampire, I would have you know of its threat. If I cannot kill him, and find my death on that day, I would rather go to the Ancestors with the knowledge that the Vampire will not live on."

Thorlek looked over his Thanes. "You have the assurance of Khazad Vulkhrund, Gorthek. The throng shall be mustered. How long is it until the Vampire returns?"

"Thirty days from now," said Gorthek. "Up in the high passes of the third mountain. You would do well to warn your rangers."

The King smiled grimly. "We shall be ready. Will you take shelter in our halls until then?"

Gorthek nodded respectfully. "Aye, King Thorlek, I will. I thank you for the offer."

"Good," said the King, "now go and get some ale down you, Slayer. You look in dire need of refreshment, and I think there's some Bugmans left, if the beardlings haven't guzzled it all already. I have to talk with my Thanes."

Gorthek grinned as he bowed. "I'll be sure to check. Such quality ale shouldn't be wasted on beardlings." He walked from the Great Hall, his axe swinging in its shoulder clasp. The heavy stone double doors of the Hall groaned shut behind him.

**Part 5**

Varakash woke slowly, his unnatural senses stifled with the rotting stench of death emanating from the shelter. The sharp-edged steel plate of his armour, notched and tarnished over many years use, dug into his skin where he lay.

The armour was basic, a simple steel cuirass and leg guards. Its surface was pitted and gouged from years of use, discoloured from exposure to the harsh elements. His sword was barely worthy of the name, a simple length of unadorned, heavy steel, with a bent square cross-guard. His hair, once lustrous and thick, was thin and bedraggled, neglected in his centuries of wandering.

Varakash stood. Soon, he would be returned to his full glory. Soon, he would be reunited once more with his Queen. Soon…

Soon, he would face the Slayer.

Varakash did not know what to do about the Dwarf, and his indecision troubled him. He had been free to do as he wished for centuries, millennia, but now there were bigger concerns.

He closed his eyes slowly as he heard Reinholdt begin to wake. The others would not awaken for another hour. They were not powerful enough to function when the sun was still hovering above the horizon.

"Lord?" Reinholdt's voice floated through the darkness.

Varakash opened his eyes and looked at Reinholdt. He blinked, once, slowly. His voice was silken when he spoke, yet with a harshness beneath the surface; silk sliding over sandpaper. "Are you prepared to appear before the Queen of the Night, Reinholdt?"

Reinholdt, for the first time in three thousand long years, faltered. The ancient Vampire opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. When he did speak, finally, his voice was low and measured. "I am as ready as I will ever be, Lord."

"Good," said Varakash. "The Queen does not suffer overconfident fools easily, especially males."

Reinholdt studied Varakash for a long moment. "You know the Queen, Lord?"

"Yes. I knew Neferatem," said Varakash. He closed his eyes. "That was before the Great Burning, when the City of Vampires died. She was my Queen, and I was her guard, serving her in both life and death. Those were glorious times, Reinholdt. Not the petty squabbling nations of today. No, in Lahmia, there was a strong government, led by a strong Queen. The people were safe from their enemies, and we all thought ourselves invulnerable, great lords of the night, preying on the weak and the scum."

He stood. "Lahmia was the greatest city the world has ever seen, Reinholdt. And it lives on."

Reinholdt stood up next to him. He nodded in understanding, his brown eyes holding an unnatural gleam. "My Lord, when do you wish to arrive at the Silver Pinnacle?"

Varakash glanced at his ancient thrall. "Tomorrow."

"My Lord?" said Reinholdt. "I do not know if the other can cover a hundred miles in one night."

"Then we leave them," Varakash said simply. "I will arrive at the gates of the Silver Pinnacle by daybreak, with or without my Accursed Lords. They will follow. I will assure that."

Reinholdt nodded in acceptance. "Very well. When do we set out?"

Varakash gestured at the wall of corpses surrounding them, and drew on his necromantic power. The corpses writhed, contorting in unnatural positions. Slowly, gaps appeared in the wall, faint light filtering through. The gaps widened, forming a narrow arch.

Varakash walked through the arch. He turned in the semi-darkness outside. "Now."

He walked slowly down the trail, and Reinholdt followed him. The two began a steady, ground-eating jog, moving faster than a sprinting horse. They would keep up the speed all through the night. The Queen of the Night demanded nothing less.

**Part 6**

Gustav Elesvarn fumbled his tankard back down to the thick wooden table. It was his fifth tonight, and he was feeling pleasantly drunk. The _Lusty Maid_ had the best ale in Morkand. Granted, it was the only ale in Morkand, but it was still good.

He turned to his drinking companion, a thin man with deep bags under his weary-looking eyes. "So," he said, "tell me some more about these 'undead' you seem to know so much about."

The man looked up at Gustav. He said in a heavy voice, "They dwell everywhere, wherever there are dead buried. Sylvania is home to the greatest of them. The Sylvanian lords are no true lords, but are predators of the night."

Gustav snorted. "Shut up mate, you're talking crap." He took another deep swallow of ale. "Everyone knows that the dead walking is rubbish. Sylvania's abandoned anyways, or near enough."

The man shook his head. "I'm telling you, it's true. Sylvania is a province of death, where the dead roam the land, ruled over by Vampiric overlords."

"Bollocks," said Gustav. "There's nothing there."

"Nothing living," the man said ominously.

Gustav waved a hand in front of the man's face. "Nah. You talk rubbish. Barmaid!" he shouted. "Another ale!"

The man looked like he was about to leave, but before he could rise, his eyes snapped wide open and all his limbs flew out straight. His mouth was frozen in a tight-lipped scream, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the table.

Gustav leaned over to him. "What's up mate? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The man began to speak, words falling haltingly from his mouth, as though dragged out by some unseen force. "The night strides the land once more, the dragon and the queen together! Blood and fire will rend the world! All the world will be covered in darkness once more, and there will be no land to stop it-" He cut off abruptly, a strangled sound coming from his throat. His face turned red, then purple, and he fell from his chair. Thin trickles of blood ran from the corners of his eyes.

Gustav stared at the dead man in mute horror. A stray thought – _Witch!_ – ran through his head, drifting through the indecision that held him immobile. Shocked silence descended on the tavern.

And then the heavy door was thrown open, crashing against the wall. A man stumbled inside, wearing torn clothes that whipped around in the harsh winds entering from outside. He scanned the crowd wildly, and shouted, "Attack! We're under attack! Get out before you all die!"

He turned to leave, but a rusted axe chopped down from outside the door and bit deep into the side of his neck. He collapsed with a grunting cry, and the wielder of the axe was dragged into view.

Gustav cried out in horror as he beheld the thing. It was six feet tall, with grey-green skin that sloughed off its emaciated form. Its face was slack, and a flap of skin hung from the side of its skull down over one eye. It groaned.

Everyone moved at once. Tables were overturned as people frantically tried to escape, climbing over the bar and heading for the back exit. Gustav glanced at the bar. He'd never make it.

He looked around for something, _anything_, he could get past the zombie with. His eyes fell on a broken chair leg that lay on the floor, and he dived for it, barely avoiding being trampled in the mob. He grabbed the leg tightly, gritted his teeth, and ran at the zombie.

It lurched at him, and he swung the leg as hard as he could for its head. The heavy wooden leg hit home with a sickening wet crunch, and caved in the side of the zombie's skull. It staggered into the doorframe, and Gustav kicked it in the knee. The floorboards creaked as it fell onto them.

But it was not dead. Gustav watched, horrified, as the zombie tried to claw its way to its feet again. Without thinking, he smashed the chair leg into its head again, and again, wincing each time at the horrible wet smack of the impact. He kept hitting until the zombie's head was just a mess on the floor.

Gustav looked round, adrenaline pounding in his veins. A half-dozen people were taking cover behind overturned tables and benches. Exultation coursed through him, and he nonchalantly scooped up the zombie's fallen axe. He brandished it at the hiding citizens.

"Oh, let me do all the work, why don't you? Come on," he said, motioning towards the door, "we've got to get out of here."

Still revelling in his victory, Gustav ran through the door and into the street. It was after midnight, and the wind was cold and biting, cutting through his coat. He took off down a narrow street at a run, looking over his shoulder to see the ragged group from the tavern following him, clutching at chair legs and odd bits of wood. One had a pair of broken bottles, and another a large carving knife. All of them looked scared out of their wits. He laughed wildly and came out of the narrow street onto the main road.

And that was when he saw them.

A huge horde of zombies shambled down the street towards Gustav. What must have been well over a hundred animated corpses stumbled and lurched down the cobbled road. Behind them, a black shadow rode slowly on a massive steed.

All the adrenaline left Gustav, replaced instantly by freezing fear. All he knew was that he didn't want to be within a thousand miles of that black figure. He ran.

His footfalls pounded on the cobbles, a frenetic beat that cut sharply over the low moans and grunts of the zombies behind him. Flames licked at the buildings around him, but he paid them no attention, concentrating on his steps.

He turned a corner at the end of the street, and ran straight into the black figure. He bounced off, and fell to the floor, his heart pounding in his throat with sheer terror. His eyes slowly trailed up the immobile figure in front of him.

Its steed was gone, and it stood in front of him, well over six feet tall, clad in an ancient, ornate suit of black-lacquered armour. Plates overlapped in a complex design, and an emblem was worked into the chest, a rearing dragon, wings outstretched, outlined in blood red. The figure held a large greatsword in one hand, the blade shining in the flickering firelight.

Gustav looked up at its face. It was a man, or at least had the features of one. Dark eyes glared from a narrow face, and his thin-lipped mouth was set in a faintly amused smile. He spoke. "Hello, mortal. I am Walach. I am your death."

It struck out with the sword, faster than Gustav's eyes could follow, and severed his head from his shoulder in a blur of steel.


	4. Rise of the Dead Parts 7 to 8

**Part 7**

Shallaeran led her small band through the trees, in pursuit of those who would defile the boundaries of Athel Loren. The six Glade Guardians each held a powerful longbow, and slender knives hung at their belts, their hilts barely visible under their shifting cloaks.

Shallaeran glanced at Imraes, speaking softly. "We approach the enemy."

Imraes slowly took a thin arrow from his quiver and fitted it to the string of his bow. "We strike from the shadows," he said.

Shallaeran nodded, and moved off into the trees. Her heart held nothing but grim determination. The foes of Athel Loren must not be allowed to walk under its boughs. She fitted an arrow to her bowstring, scanning the trees.

A flash of darkness between two distant trees caught her eye, and she signalled to the others. Kimric moved forwards, stepping silently through the forest, bow held ready. He reached a position barely a hundred paces from the unseen foe, and settled into a hollow in the base of a tree.

Shallaeran watched, immobile, as Kimric glanced over the lip of the hollow, arrow nocked and ready to loose. Shallaeran shifted sideways slightly, and caught sight of the enemy, readying her own shot.

They were no beastmen, or marauding Orcs, or even misguided humans. They were elves, or at least, they had been. They moved jerkily, shuffling awkwardly down the thin pathways, desiccated limbs creaking and with each movement. Shallaeran's sharp eyes picked out crawling insects flitting around them, massing around the grievous wounds that each of them possessed. She could see a dozen of the creatures, and more were out of her sight, hidden behind trees and plants.

And then the time for observation was over. Kimric glanced at Shallaeran, a look of silent communication, and loosed his arrow A zombie stumbled backwards, the thin wooden shaft lodged in its skull. Shallaeran suppressed her emotions, and fired. Her arrow streaked between the trees and struck a zombie in the hollow of its throat, snapping its head back and almost throwing it to the floor.

The other Glade Guardians fired, and four more zombies staggered, arrows protruding from their rotting flesh. A ragged chorus of groans echoed hauntingly through the forest. Shallaeran smoothly nocked another arrow, and fired again, in time with Kimric. Two arrows impacted into a zombie's chest with a single wet thump, knocking the animated corpse to the floor.

Imraes was faster than the others, and his arrow took a zombie in its knee as it turned to face the group of Asrai. The corpse dropped heavily to the ground, still trying to walk. Three more arrows lanced out from the trees, and three more zombies fell.

The zombies turned as one to face the Asrai, and began to shamble stiffly towards them. Their movement made it impossible to accurately count their number, but Shallaeran guessed at somewhere close to twenty.

She fired once more, knocking another zombie to the ground. Imraes was barely a second slower, and his arrow thudded home into a zombie's horribly exposed heart. Shallaeran motioned for Kimric to move back with one hand, while selecting an arrow with the other.

The young wood elf nodded almost imperceptibly. He loosed a last arrow and turned. Groans rose from the zombies as they saw the nimble elf running through the trees and the walking corpses sped up, moving with purpose.

Shallaeran cursed under her breath. She should have realised that the zombies would use Kimric as a target to home in on. Ceroch and Mercyl shifted position, moving out to the left, flanking the zombies. Imraes and Rhaelyr moved right, leaving Shallaeran and Kimric in the path of the zombies.

She fired, her arrow streaking over Kimric's shoulder and into a zombie's empty eye socket. The thing's head shattered under the force, and it dropped to the floor. The flankers fired together, four deadly arrows scything down another quartet of shambling corpses.

Kimric reached Shallaeran's position, and whirled, an arrow ready. He fired, and another zombie fell. That left less than a dozen. Shallaeran smiled grimly. The abominations were still twenty paces from the Asrai, and that was more than enough.

The six elves fired as one, and half the zombies fell backwards abruptly. They loosed again, and the remaining corpses were knocked down.

Shallaeran glanced at the others, meeting their eyes, a silent look of acknowledgement passing between them. She turned, and began to walk slowly into the forest, heading for the halls of her Kinband. Lord Helioran would need to be informed of this new threat.

And then Imraes flew backwards into the bole of a tree with a gut-wrenching smack. Blood flew as the Asrai dropped limply to the floor, a massive wound across his chest.

Terror reared its icy head as Shallaeran dived behind a tree, looking around to try to locate whatever it was that had just killed Imraes. She had an arrow readied instinctively, and the others followed her example, scrambling behind whatever cover they could find. Shallaeran scanned the trees, but she could see nothing.

A black shadow darted from nowhere, faster than should have been possible, and eviscerated Rhaelyr where he stood, a huge blade tearing the Asrai in two at the waist. The elf did not have time to scream. Blood arced into the air, as the shadow seemed to vanish, moving with preternatural speed.

Ceroch sighted the enemy, and loosed an arrow. The shaft hit its target, striking home with a sharp snap. Not a sound came from the enemy as it charged at Ceroch, its blade descending upon the elf in a dark blur. The sword cleaved into Ceroch with a sickening crunch, and the Asrai dropped to the floor.

Shallaeran tracked the creature, bowstring pulled back to her ear. Mercyl drew her blade and leapt at the foe, striking sinuously with the long knife. The creature dodged each blow, moving so fast it seemed to blur around the Asrai's strikes.

Shallaeran loosed her arrow, and the shaft flew through the air to thud into the centre of the creature's back. The thin arrowhead pierced the armour with a snap, but the creature barely seemed to notice.

Kimric fired straight after, and his arrow took the creature in the side of its head. The thing whirled, lashing out with its weapon and hacking deep into Mercyl's stomach. She flew backwards, screaming.

The creature looked at Shallaeran and Kimric, rage burning in its eyes. She studied it unwillingly, and the realisation hit her. Vampire! It reached up and swiftly withdrew the arrow from its head, casting the shaft to the floor.

Her arrow smashed into its chest with a smack, staggering the unprepared vampire, and Kimric's followed, hitting it in the hollow of its throat. She nocked another arrow as it staggered.

The vampire straightened, and then it moved.

It seemed to appear in front of Kimric, crossing the distance in an instant. It lashed out with its blade, and Kimric's head fell from his shoulders silently. Blood sprayed high into the air, filling the forest with its stench.

Icy terror coursed through Shallaeran's veins as she faced the vampire. It had once been human, years ago. Now, though, it was an abomination, clad in extravagantly-worked black armour dripping with the blood of her companions.

"Time to die, little elf," it snarled, and raised its sword.

She closed her eyes and released the arrow she was holding. The twang of the bowstring echoed through the trees, followed immediately by the snap-thud of the arrow hitting home. Silence descended upon the forest.

Tentatively, Shallaeran opened her eyes. The vampire stood transfixed, the wooden shaft of her arrow protruding from its heart. It looked down slowly, in disbelief. The sword dropped from its fingers. Its mouth moved slowly.

"What have you done?" it whispered. "This cannot happen to me. It cannot. I am a servant of the Lord of Blood. I cannot die."

Blood trickled from the corners of its mouth, and the vampire fell to the floor. It began to shrivel before her eyes, the ravages of time coursing through the creature in moments. Within a minute, all that remained was ashes.

Sorrow filled her heart as Shallaeran looked at the corpses of the Asrai, littered about the forest. She left them untouched as she walked slowly, warily, back to the halls of her kin. Though the threat was vanquished for now, she had no doubts that it would return.

**Part 8**

Shallaeran stood before Lord Helioran, clad in fresh robes. The Asrai highborn, leader of Shallaeran's kinband, sat on a twisting throne formed out of the living roots of a great tree.

The tree itself made up the towering, arched roof of the hidden hall, and its massive roots spread downwards, forming curving pillars and beams, emerging from the floor of the hall to make benches and tables. The hall was coloured in the vibrant reds and browns of autumn, the floor made of fallen leaves and soft grasses. Illumination shone from a large blazing pile of deadwood in the centre of the hall, casting its flickering light over the assembled Wood Elves.

"What have you to report, Shallaeran Nihsurae?" asked Helioran. His unbound hair fell over his shoulder in a dark wave as he leaned forwards expectantly.

Shallaeran swallowed, trying not to show her sorrow. To do so would be undignified. "A new enemy has turned its attentions upon Athel Loren, Lord Helioran. I and a band of five other Glade Guardians came across this foe scant hours ago, in the forests to the east. I-" She swallowed. "I am the only survivor."

His eyes were hard as Helioran looked at her. "What was the nature of this foe, Shallaeran Nihsurae?"

"The dead walk the forests once more, Lord."

A chorus of uneasy murmurs rippled through the Asrai behind Shallaeran. The undead had last been encountered under the dread Lichemaster, Heinrich Kemmler, and had only been fought off at great cost to the forest, and to the Asrai. That they would return once more boded ill for the coming winter.

"Did the Lichemaster accompany them, Shallaeran? Is this blight returned to us again?" asked Helioran. His grip tightened upon the arms of his living throne.

Shallaeran shook her head. "No, Lord. They were led by the infernal revenants, those who would drain all life from the world to feed their immortal hunger." She shuddered.

"Vampires." Helioran almost spat the word.

"Yes Lord. The blood hunters enter the forest. I have slain one of their dark brotherhood, but I fear it was only a thrall. It killed my companions before my eyes, and it was only due to a lucky bowshot that I escaped." She shook, trying to hold in her grief at the memories that flooded her mind.

The blood, the stench of death that chocked her nostrils, assailed her mind. The arcing blade of the creature's sword cut through her mind, exposing her terror. And through it all, those horrible eyes burning into her as it stared, and then its voice, grating smoothly over her.

"Time to die, little elf."

She was brought back to reality by the sound of Helioran's voice. "You have accomplished much, Shallaeran Nihsurae. To slay even a thrall of such beings is no easy feat, for they are possessed of strength and speed beyond that of mortal races, even amongst the Elves."

She nodded, blinking away the burning in her eyes. "Thank you, Lord Helioran."

"You may leave now, Shallaeran. You have done well, and a little rest is deserved. Go. You will be summoned if you are needed further." Helioran's voice was soft, and he gestured towards the exit of the hall with one hand.

Shallaeran nodded, and made for the exit. The highborn of the kinband would deliberate over the threat, and a solution would be reached. One always was.

Shallaeran had no idea what it could be, though.

Gorthek looked up from his ale as the door of the inn was pushed open. Through it stepped a ranger, clad in a stout leather jerkin and holding a crossbow. His face was flushed, and Gorthek could tell he had been running.

"Is Gorthek the Slayer in this inn?" called the ranger, breathlessly.

Gorthek stood. "Aye, he is. Who are you, and what do you want with me?"

The ranger looked Gorthek over. "You're summoned before King Thorlek. Something about a Vampire."

Gorthek drained the last of his ale, cheap stuff at best, nothing like the bugmans he had missed, and walked over to the ranger. "When and where?" he growled.

"Hold up, Slayer," said the ranger. "I don't know. I was just told to summon ya."

Gorthek just looked at him. "I meant the King, you wazzock."

"Well ya should ha' been clearer then! Now, and in the Great Hall. Get moving."

The ranger broke off into grumbling about 'bloody slayers', while Gorthek dashed past him. It wasn't in his nature to run anywhere, but he thought this occasion warranted a bit of haste.

After a good ten minutes of running, he made it to the Great Hall. He burst through the doors, red-faced, and sketched a quick bow. He wasted no time in addressing the King.

"So what's this about the Vampire then?"

King Thorlek looked up at the Slayer. "I know you are a Slayer, Gorthek Axehand, but I expect at least a semblance of order in my Hall. You are trying my patience, and since you are presently relying on my hospitality, I would advise against testing me further."

Gorthek shuffled slightly. "My question stands, King Thorlek."

The King looked at the Slayer wearily. "Bloody Slayers…" he murmured under his breath, and then raised his voice.

"The Zangunaz has been sighted moving north at incredible speeds. He moves through the mountain passes, covering a mile every score of minutes. It was pure luck that a party of Rangers saw him, and brought the news back here."

Gorthek set his jaw grimly. "I will pursue the monster, King Thorlek. As much as it pains me to leave Khazad Vulkhrund behind me, I cannot let the Vampire escape."

Thorlek glanced at the thane beside him. Gorthek saw that the thane was outfitted for war, in full leathers, and held a rune-etched hammer at his waist.

"Thane Korgan will accompany you, along with a force of his clansmen." Thorlek held a hand up as Gorthek started to open his mouth. "Don't protest. It would be a waste of breath. I'm sending them, and if you don't like it, then tough."

Gorthek grumbled under his breath, then said, "Why? I am a Slayer. I fight alone."

Korgan stepped forwards. "Yes, you do, Slayer. I'm there so that if you mess up in your lone fight, the vampire still dies."

Gorthek sighed. There was no way of getting rid of the thane. He knew he shouldn't get himself involved with Kings. Still, he thought, at least the vampire would die.

Thorlek waved a hand towards the doors. "Now go, both of you. I want you out of this Hold by tomorrow. And don't come back without the head of that vampire."


	5. In the Halls of Night Parts 1 to 2

**Chapter two: In the Halls of Night**

**Part 1**

The twenty robed guards stood immobile, ten either side of the massive, bone-white doors. The sentinels made no sound, and could have been mistaken for statues of not for the grave-stench enshrouding them.

Varakash stood in the shadow of a rocky outcropping, watching the guards. It was almost dawn. Soon, they would enter the Silver Pinnacle, to be replaced by those who would not be harmed by the sun's harsh glare.

He drew his sword. Reinholdt, crouched beside him, did likewise.

He could simply command the guards to allow him passage, but there was no honour in such an act. Varakash prided himself on his honour, on his unwavering discipline. It was all he had left to him. Everything else had been stripped away over the centuries of purposeless wandering.

Now, though, now he would have a purpose once more.

The doors groaned open, and Varakash's head jerked up. The guards walked through the slowly widening passage, their movements stiff and shambling. Varakash's vampiric eyes caught sight of one of their hands as it fell free of the bulky robes for a second. Grey, decayed skin flaked off the thing, weeping sores and lesions tracing ragged lines across it and disappearing under the heavy folds of its robes.

Varakash moved suddenly, just as the doors clanged fully open. He was among the guards in a second, moving almost too fast for mortal eyes to follow. His sword struck out, snakelike, and a pair of robed figures fell to the floor, headless.

He was a whirlwind of silent death, every touch of his sword bringing swift doom to his foes. His lips drew back, exposing his fangs, and he snarled as he killed. His sword slid effortlessly through a guard's waist, cleaving the thing in two. A chorus of groans rose from the guards as he followed his strike through, stepping smoothly forward and bringing his sword down to bite deep into another guard's shoulder.

It fell silently, and Varakash whipped his sword around. The battered steel met a gleaming halberd mid-strike, stopping the polearm dead. Varakash whirled, ducking low, and his sword cut the legs from the guard.

And then, abruptly, there was only him.

He looked around. The guards lay sprawled on the floor around him, rough, bloodless wounds sliced into them. Limbs lay beside their owners, misshapen hunks of dead flesh, rotting swiftly onto the rock. The stench of old death coiled in the air.

The slaughter had taken barely thirty seconds.

He turned to Rienholdt, who was walking slowly down towards him. "We must go. She will have felt the demise of her minions."

Rienholdt nodded, glancing at the corpses strewn around. "I do not know the protocol of this court, Lord. We are expected to do this?"

"The Queen of the Night respects only strength, Reinholdt. No male is worthy of her unless proves himself so. That is why we shall fight our way to her side, and that is why she will accept us."

"But Lord," began Reinholdt, "did she not call you to her? Why would she not accept you?"

Varakash stepped over a body, and walked through the gates. Reinholdt followed at his side. "She does not know me, and she is aware of this. She has called me, for she knows what I was, but now she will test me, for she does not know what I have become."

Reinholdt bowed his head. "Of course. Forgive my ignorance."

"It is forgiven, my Thrall," said Varakash. "But now, focus on the task at hand. This citadel is guarded by more than just zombies and skeletons. Our kind, the Queen's supplicants, those of the Path of the Lahmian, reside here, and they will undoubtedly endeavour to halt us."

"Their number?" asked Reinholdt, sliding his broadsword silently from its sheath.

Varakash extended his senses outwards, past the rock and gold, past the dead, past the opulence. It was something that had come to him over the years, an ability perhaps gained from the blood he had consumed, an extension of his vampiric abilities. Wherever its origins, it was a part of him now, a part of his curse.

He felt the dark, tortured souls of his kind, moving closer through broad corridors and down winding stairs. His knuckles tightened upon the hilt of his sword. There were too many for him to count.

Where had Neferata found all of them? Had she scoured all the world for her kin? Varakash did not know, but by the Gods, he would find out.

"What is it, Lord?" Reinholdt must have seen his expression.

He said heavily, "The Silver Pinnacle shall be stained crimson with blood."

The pair passed under a magnificent golden archway, twenty metres high and a dozen wide. Beyond the archway stretched a huge chamber, with a score of intricately carved marble columns stretching up to the high, arched ceiling.

A velvet carpet, in the white-bordered dark crimson of ancient Lahmia, ran through the centre of the chamber, a wide strip leading to a pair of immense marble doors. Gilded couches and recliners dotted the chamber, arranged in an elaborate pattern. Silken drapes hung delicately from the grand supporting columns, creating the illusion of rooms within the chamber. Torches dotted the chamber, bathing it in a bright, flickering white-orange light.

When he spoke, Varakash's voce was a whisper. "These halls mirror those of Lahmia, my birthplace. Over four thousand years have passed since I last saw this. Four thousand long years."

He looked at Reinholdt. "Can you imagine what it is like to see the greatest city the world has ever seen reborn once more? I have watched everything I knew crumble to dust, and now it is reborn. You have seen your homeland grow stronger and greater, but to see Lahmia again, after witnessing its downfall… that is reward enough for this journey."

Reinholdt nodded solemnly. "I understand, Lord Morkhur. What is this chamber?"

"This? This is the Great Reception Hall, an exact copy of that which once existed within the Royal Palace of Lahmia. All visitors to the Palace waited in this Hall, so its opulence was unmatched. And that opulence has been retained in this copy." He shook his head. "So like Neferatem to retain her rule even here, in the northern depths of the mountains."

A seductive, feminine voice echoed around the chamber, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "As the Queen of Death deserves, Forsaken One."

Reinholdt glanced around warily. Varakash remained immobile, sword held still by his side. "Though I have been Forsaken for millennia, I return to the Queen once more, to resume my place at her side. Will you attempt to halt me?" announced Varakash.

The voice that answered was subtly different, and Varakash could sense that it came from a different speaker. "Those who are Forsaken have given up their ties to the Queen of Death. Only through testing may you regain them."

"Then test me. I was centuries old before you existed." He spread his arms. "I served the Queen at the very beginning of it all. For four thousand long years have I wandered, and now I have been called. I come to answer that call."

He lowered his arms. "Test me, Handmaidens of the Queen, and you shall see that I am sincere."

A third voice spoke, from behind Varakash. "And what of your companion?"

Reinholdt drew his sword, dropping into a guard stance. "I am of the blood of Lord Morkhur. For three millennia, I have followed at his side. If I were not worthy, I would not be standing here beside him. Test me if you will, but do not expect me to bow down in defeat."

"You speak the truth, both of you," the first voice said, "but you must still be tested. None may come before the Queen untested."

The second voice emerged once again, closer this time. "You speak truth, and yet truth may hide truth as easily as any falsehood may."

The third voice spoke as soon as the second had finished. "No lie may escape the testing. We know the truth of your word, but the testing shall find their worth."

"You speak to me of the worth of words?" interrupted Varakash. "You? You are mere children to me. Do not think that you can teach me. If necessary, I will demonstrate the strength of my conviction to you, but do not presume to judge me. I could crush the three of you together in seconds."

With a whisper of silk, the owners of the three voices stepped from behind the drapes, emerging at the end of the Hall. They stood before the great doors, bathed in the flickering light of the torches.

Their beauty struck Varakash immediately. Long, flowing hair framed perfect faces, their natural appearance enhanced by carefully chosen makeup. They wore seductive gowns of blood red silk, the fabric clutching at the immaculate contours of their forms. Full, red lips curled upwards in slight smiles.

"Then let us make the testing fair," they whispered, their voices caught by the acoustics of the Hall and magnified tenfold, so it seemed as if they spoke into Varakash's ear.

At their words, lithe shapes emerged from behind the drapes that divided the Hall. Over a score of vampires lined the Hall, silent ghosts with deadly smiles. They closed in a circle around Varakash and Reinholdt.

Varakash glanced at Reinholdt. "Your abilities will be tested, but they cannot hope to defeat us. I am of the second line, brought into undeath by Abhorash himself, and you are of the third. These fledglings are no more than the sixth or seventh. Embrace this as a chance to hone your abilities, but do not kill unless you have to. Neferatem wishes us tested, but not for us to slaughter her carefully gathered Handmaidens."

Reinholdt nodded silently.

The Lahmian at the centre of the first three stepped forwards. "You come before us as Forsaken Ones. You will leave in Acceptance, or in death. Let the testing begin."

**Part 2**

_Lahmia, four thousand years ago…_

Varakash Morkhur traced the ragged scar across his chest with a finger, dimpling the soft linen of his tunic. The injury started at his left shoulder with a knotted bump, and ran down to his right hip, his only disfigurement. He paused at his hip, and then removed his finger.

He buckled on the shining steel plates of his leg guards, steel plates thin enough to allow him to move freely, yet tough enough to give him protection in battle. His white linens crinkled under the edges of the plates, and he tied the straps behind his legs.

Next came the ornate breastplate, put on over his white tunic. The bright steel was polished to a shine, with the outline of heroic musculature worked into the chest. That was followed by the backplate, similarly decorated and polished. The two pieces snapped together with four clasps along his sides.

He slipped his arms into the vambraces, buckling them on tightly, and then lifted one ornate shoulder plate. It was worked into a gleaming silver bat wing, curving up and backwards. He lowered it onto his arm, and strapped it down. The wing swept back around his head. He put on the other, and the two wings nearly met, high above and behind his head, framing his face.

His sword lay on the table in front of him. It was a simple blade, far plainer than his armour. Four and a half feet of polished steel, the blade was still deadly sharp, despite its simple workmanship. The guard was shaped like a rearing dragon, spread wings forming the functional part of the guard. The pommel was adorned with a simple metal teardrop. It had been his father's sword.

Varakash walked from the room, nodding to the two Guards who stood outside. They were from his unit, and nodded back, smiling. Few others would do him the courtesy. Stepping into the street outside, he paused. The fighting at the temple troubled him.

The Queen's Guard should never have to be used within the walls of Lahmia. Never. Such infighting was utterly alien to him. The lives of Lahmian citizens were inviolable. That something this serious could happen in the temple was beyond belief.

Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, Varakash motioned for the two Guards to follow him. The three walked down the paved street, towards a large stone building. As they walked past it, a viewing slit was opened, and a cry sounded from within.

Before Varakash had reached the next building, ten fully armoured Guards from his unit rushed out of the large building and fell in behind him. He turned his head to look at them. "There are reports of fighting at the temple. We have been ordered to investigate, and put down any wrongdoers. These orders come from Queen Neferatem himself."

The Guards nodded in unison. "Yes sir."

Varakash smiled, and broke into a jog, pushing through the civilians lining the street. The armoured bodies of his Guards clattered as they ran behind him, dirt and dust whirling up into the air behind them.

He rounded a corner, and found himself facing the temple. Flames licked at the base of the temple, from some spilled brazier, Varakash assumed. The clamour of battle echoed from within.

"With me, Guards!" he shouted, and ran for the temple. Pounding up the steps, he broke through the remains of the door.

Chaos reigned inside the temple. Knots of Guards fought with black-robed priests in ones and twos, swords clanging against wickedly curved ceremonial daggers and heavy bronze staffs. And at the centre of it all, atop a broken stone stage, three massive, obsidian Ushabti swung their immense weapons in huge arcs, cutting down the Guards.

Varakash led his Guards forwards into the melee with a roar. He slashed left and sliced open a priest's face, and then whipped his sword right and across the throat of another. He vaulted the falling corpse and punched a priest in the face, feeling his nose break beneath his fist. The priest fell back, clutching at his face, and Varakash impaled him.

He drew his sword out swiftly, and spun, his sword flashing out and blocking a heavy staff descending towards his head. He pushed the staff out of the way, and hacked his sword crudely into its owner's chest. He felt the blade bite into bone, and ripped it free before the priest could carry him to the floor.

It was a massacre. Priests were dying everywhere. It was not all one-sided though. The Ushabti were taking a heavy toll on his Guards, their man-sized weapons killing anything that they hit. A circle of Guards clustered around them, darting in to slice quickly with swords and spears, and then dodging back to avoid the obsidian beast's response.

He would not be able to kill the Ushabti alone. Varakash knew that. He would do no one any good dead. Casting around, he ran for the steps to the top floor. He dodged around Guards and priests, pushing them from his path. He had to reach whoever was in command of the Guards here.

He reached the top of the stairs, and almost tripped in the blood. It dripped from every surface, a thick, crimson coating. Spatters of it laced the walls. Grimacing, Varakash ran through the blood, towards the faint sounds of combat he heard from further inside the temple.

He pulled open a broken door, and was faced with the sight of a gore-covered Guard Captain. The Captain turned to face Varakash, sword held ready, and then lowered his weapon as he recognised Varakash.

"Merovar," said Varakash. Merovar was the most bloodthirsty warrior in the Guard, although his combat prowess could not be denied. He also hated Varakash.

"Ah," said Merovar, as he stepped over the eviscerated corpse of a priest, "look who it is. The 'white warrior' come to save the day."

Varakash grimaced at Merovar's use of the name. He had earned it out of respect, a sign of appreciation from his warriors, yet his fellow captains, all except for Walach, used it to taunt him. Looks were unimportant, they believed. Skill wall all.

"What happened here, Merovar?" Varakash asked.

Merovar looked around. "The Mortuary Priests have rebelled against our Queen, Varakash. They must be destroyed. Rebellion must not be allowed to flourish within Lahmia."

Varakash could hardly believe that betrayal on such a scale could occur. "No. The Priests have been a part of Lahmia since it was founded. They would not…" he said.

Merovar scowled. "Look around, Varakash. The Ushabti slaughter our warriors even as we speak. Is this not evidence enough?"

Varakash turned and walked from the room. Merovar's voice came after him.

"Where are you going?"

Varakash looked back. "To kill the Ushabti. Are you coming?" He did not wait for Merovar's scowl, and started running.


	6. In the Halls of Night Parts 3 to 4

**Part 3**

_The Silver Pinnacle, present day…_

Varakash slammed the flat of his sword upwards in a perfect block, pulverising the clawed arm descending towards him. He maintained his momentum and spun low, bringing his sword down to bite deep into the midriff of a stunningly beautiful vampire.

She screamed, a high, hissing sound, and dropped her long knife to the floor. Varakash punched her in the fact with his free hand, feeling bones crunch beneath his fist, and then drew back and plunged his fingers deep into her chest, cracking through her ribcage and crushing her heart.

He ripped his hand free as she convulsed, falling to the floor. Varakash brought his sword up, just in time to sever the arm of another attacker. Hot blood spurted from the ragged wound, splashing across his armour. He slammed an elbow backwards, felt thudding impact as it connected, and then turned and kicked out. His steel-shod foot caught the staggering Lahmian in the chest, and she fell backwards to the floor.

A vampire rushed him from the left, long chestnut hair trailing behind her, a wickedly curved blade held in one slender hand. Varakash swung his sword in a heavy, horizontal blow for her head, but she ducked it with preternatural speed. As the blade sailed over her head, she stabbed upwards with her long knife, and Varakash hissed as he felt the narrow knife slide into his wrist, grating against bone.

His sword dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and the vampire was upon him in an instant, stabbing wildly with her knife. He kicked her away roughly, no room for skill, but more were crowded around him.

He leapt forwards, punching one in the centre of her delicate face, and aiming a high kick that took another in the throat. Dodging a hasty slash, he ducked low and swept the feet from beneath another Lahmian, before jumping high to pound his knee into the head of a fourth.

As he landed, he grabbed his sword from the floor, and hacked it upwards, cleaving deep into the stomach of a short blonde vampire. She screeched, and he ripped the blade up and out, slicing her heart in two. She dropped instantly to the floor, and he spun round, ready for another enemy.

There were none.

A piercing shriek rent the air as Reinholdt hacked the legs from a redheaded vampire, and then the Lahmians drew back, forming a wide circle around Varakash and Reinholdt. A tall, striking woman stepped forwards, long auburn hair hanging in a rippling wave down to her waist. She was dressed in a clinging gown of crimson silk, embellished with dazzling gold.

"You have passed the test of might," she said, in a rich, sumptuous voice.

Varakash lowered his sword. He nodded at the two corpses on the floor, lying where they had fallen. "What of them?"

"Regrettable," said the vampire, "but they failed. Failure is not tolerated in the Halls of Night."

"You said the 'test of might'," Varakash said. "There are others?"

She smiled. "Yes, but not here. You are of the Blood, and you are no weaklings. I can sense that from here. You," she said, looking at Varakash, "are stronger than any I have seen, save for the Queen herself. You are of the Second Line, undoubtedly." She looked at Reinholdt. "And you… you are thrall to this other. Third Line, then, and strong with it."

Reinholdt slowly wiped his sword. "I fail to see the point of all this, Lahmian."

Her smile faded. "Please, my name is Shaleroth. You, Blood Dragon, would do well to remember where you are. In these halls, you are under the rule of the Queen."

"Then let us see her, then," interrupted Varakash, "and then we shall see just who is favoured. I have travelled countless miles to reach this peak, and I will not be denied now."

Shaleroth turned, and the other vampires stepped away from the wide stairs. The massive doors at the end of the chamber groaned slowly open, creaking torturously under their own weight. "Please," she said, "follow me, and you will have your audience."

Varakash walked slowly up the stairs behind her, sheathing his sword slowly. Reinholdt followed, his blood-red cloak now ripped and torn. The great doors ground shut behind the three vampires.

Beyond the doors was an immense corridor, its walls studded with arrow slits and braziers. The floor was white stone, inlaid with complex patterns of gold. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a bright, flickering light over the corridor.

Varakash remembered it well. It was exactly as it had been, four millennia ago.

"Who are you?" he asked, studying Shaleroth's back.

She turned her head. "I am Shaleroth. I have already said this."

He shook his head. "I did not ask your name, I asked who you were."

Her lips twitched in a slight smile. "I am High Priestess of the Temple of Blood. I am Highest of the Queen's Handmaidens. I am many things here, Blood Dragon. But come, I have told you much, and you have said nought. What is your name, ancient?"

"Varakash Morkhur, once of the Queen's Guard," Varakash said. He was reluctant to reveal more until he had seen Neferatem. Secrecy had served him well over the long years of solitude.

"Once of the Queen's Guard…" Shaleroth murmured. "Then you served our Queen in life as well as death? Before even the Great Burning?

Varakash simply nodded.

Shaleroth began to speak, but before she could, they reached the end of the corridor. It was a dead end, or at least, it appeared to be. She closed her mouth, and pressed a hand to a small pate set into the wall. It glowed with a black light, and abruptly the hanging chandeliers were extinguished as one.

Darkness engulfed the corridor. Varakash watched, his preternatural vision easily piercing the blackness, as the wall at the end of the corridor split. Cracks appeared over its surface, widening slowly with a sharp clacking sound, dividing the wall into angled segments. The inner segments lifted forwards, scraping outwards layer by layer to create a gap, a doorway in the wall. The last segments slotted into hidden recesses around the wall's edges, and a dark archway was formed.

Varakash was surprised. It had been W'soran himself who had created the sorcery of the wall, and he had died long ago. He looked at Shaleroth. "Where did you find a mage of sufficient power for this?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "The queen enchanted this doorway herself, Blood Dragon."

The three strode forwards through the arch, entering a vast chamber. The Throne Room. The wall opened to whichever room its activator needed to reach.

A harsh light snapped on, emerging from behind a slowly rotating fan mounted into the high, arched ceiling. All magical, Varakash knew. The sharp shafts of light rotated slowly around the Throne Room, and Varakash saw, at the very end of the chamber, a massive, winged throne. A single ruby teardrop the size of a man was suspended above the throne, hanging between the outstretched wings. A spiked halo of silver arced across the back of the throne, framing the one who sat in it.

"Neferatem," whispered Varakash. He was here at last. It was finally made real. His Queen sat before him once more.

A rich laugh rolled from the throne. "I gave up that name long ago, Varakash Morkhur. Now I am known as Neferata."

"'Beautiful in Death'," said Varakash slowly, translating the name into the crude speech of this age.

"Am I not?" said the Queen. "But come, enough of this triviality. There are more important matters to be discussed."

Varakash nodded, and slowly walked towards the throne, towards his Queen. Reinholdt wisely remained where he was, with Shaleroth.

As he walked towards Neferata, Varakash smiled. He was reunited with his Queen at last. Reunited with Lahmia.

**Part 4**

A searing, roaring agony ripped through Varakash's mind, pinning him in place. His muscles tightened all at once, hunching him over upon himself, forming his hands into claws. His mouth opened in a silent scream as the pain burned through him.

_Betrayal_. The thought coursed through him on the heels of the waves of white-hot agony. He had been betrayed, betrayed at the very culmination of his journey. In the very throne room itself.

Dimly, he became aware of low, feminine laughter, echoing from the gilded black walls of the chamber. He forced his head up, and his eyes open, tensing against the pain. The throne swam before his eyes, two score meters from him, and then shattered, jagged shards of darkness tearing at his thoughts.

Still the laughter continued.

Varakash snarled in defiance. He could not, _would not_, be denied here. Not now. He reached out with his mind, past the physical world, tapping into the fount of dark energy that fed his necromantic powers. Wresting control of the smothering energies, Varakash bent them to his will, forcing them into himself.

As the sinuous winds of his power touched him, he was infused with burning energy. His senses were heightened to impossible levels, both physical and magical, and he saw at once the midnight cables of power that twined around him, wracking his immortal shell with agony.

He forced his muscles to obey him, straightening his back slowly, torturously. He grimaced. "You think such magicks enough to halt me, Neferata?" he grated. "I am not so weak as these disciples you surround yourself with. No, I am entirely different. As you shall see."

Varakash lashed out with his power, meeting and sweeping aside the dark coils of the throne room's enchantments. He flung an arm out, and his power wreathed it in black flame. Roiling energy filled his mind, pouring through his flesh, and his eyes drained to black pools of luminescence. He straightened, the pain banished, and took a step forwards.

A gasp came from behind him. Shaleroth. Doubtless it had been millennia, if ever, since she had seen someone break through enchantments of such strength. Varakash extended his senses behind him, towards the doorway. He felt Reinholdt, the distinctive signature of his vampiric presence, like a metallic taste on his tongue. His thrall was preparing to attack Shaleroth, in recompense for her master's deceit.

Varakash snaked a coil of power through Reinholdt, using his own bond as the thrall's master. Varakash was of the second line. His power, while normally weak in his Bloodline, was complete over his own creations. He flexed the coil of power, and he felt Reinholdt stiffen behind him.

"Do not attack our host, Renholdt," he said, his voice harsh and cold. "No, such will be unnecessary. This is a test, my thrall." He began to walk heavily forwards, each footfall echoing sharply from the polished marble floor.

The throne had gone, and in its place there stood a single archway, twice the height of a man, and thrice the width. Rimmed with obsidian blocks, the archway crackled and sparked with dark energies. Varakash smiled.

He threw his arm out in front of him, and the midnight black flames roiling over it leapt from it like bolts from a crossbow, lancing across the chamber and smashing into the archway with a roaring crack. Flame splashed around the arch in a dark corona of power. The flames sank into the obsidian stones, drawn into almost invisible tracings of ancient inscriptions. The sparking slowed, then died.

Varakash resumed his walking, slowly moving forwards until he stood directly in front of the archway. Its interior was blank, the colour of the wall behind it. He reached out and touched the top stone, tracing one long finger down a spidery inscription. Light flared from the tracings, and he withdrew his hand.

The centre of the archway rippled. The ripples spread from the stones inwards, meeting at the centre in an unnatural pulsing. Waves of blackness spread, layering atop each other, forming an unnatural gateway.

Varakash walked through it without hesitation.

He emerged into a smaller chamber, although it was still over twenty meters wide. Golden tracings spiralled across the black walls, and silver lamps held flickering flames. A silver-grey carpet formed an arrow-straight pathway up the centre of the chamber, flanked by a scattering of black oak tables and luxurious white recliners.

And at the head of the chamber, atop a raised dais, sat Neferata. The Queen of Night sat upon an obsidian throne, framed by gracefully curving wings of silver. Braziers of guttering blue witchfire blazed either side of her, throwing her face into stark relief.

She wore ceremonial dress, a fragment of ancient Lahmia that Varakash had thought gone forever. Silver banding traced over a gown of black silk, with crimson droplets of blood picked out on her wrists. Her hair was gathered atop her head in an elaborate headdress, curled around intricately placed silver, pulled back way from her face, all save for two thin, curving waves that fell either side, framing her features.

Her eyes were darkest night, twin black orbs, unforgiving and cold as death itself. Her small mouth was painted dark red, and her long nails glinted silver in the flickering, unsteady light.

Varakash fell to his knees. "My Queen," he breathed. "I return to you at last."

He felt rather than heard her smile. "Rise, Varakash Morkhur, Champion of Lahmia." Her voice was satin, low and powerful.

He stood.

"Do you know why you have been summoned, Varakash?" she said, softly.

H shook his head slowly. "No, my Queen. You called me, and I came, as is the duty of a son of Lahmia."

She smiled. "Then you still truly believe in Lahmia."

"Yes. Lahmia was the greatest civilisation this world has seen, and I will not abandon it while I still live."

"Good, Varakash. I do not desire an end to Lahmia, and I will not allow it to be forgotten."

"My Queen, what is it that you desire?" asked Varakash.

She leaned forwards. "What I desire, Varakash Morkhur, is the restoration of the City of Blood, a resurgent Lahmia. Once more shall the vampires come forth to take our rightful place at the head of civilisation. Once more shall the nine hundred commandments be dictated. Once more, Varakash, once more will the Armies of Night ride out in all their power to vanquish our enemies."

Varakash fought to stay upright. He was staggered by Neferata's proclamation. A renewed Lahmia? "My Queen…" he whispered, "what part do you wish me to play in this? I shall do anything to ensure this vision comes to pass."

"You, Varakash?" She stared at him, the corner of her mouth curving upwards in a small smile. "You will lead my armies. You will be my instrument of conquest. You will be the one to carve out our new realm."


	7. In the Halls of Night Parts 5 to 6

Part 5 

A sinuous line of green snaked through the widening mountain passes, flowing around obstructions like water. A low, burbling cacophony of noise echoed upwards from it, shrouding it in countless babbling voices.

Gorthek glanced at the distant line, and turned from his vantage point at the crest of the trail. He looked back to where Korgan's Rangers were following him. "Grobi up ahead," he called down, "looks like about tenscore from here."

The lead Ranger, a grizzled veteran by the name of Grim Harrson, nodded sharply, and gestured to the other Rangers. They turned, and jogged back down the trail, disappearing from view around a boulder. Grim trudged up to Gorthek. "Goblins, you say? I suppose it was too much to hope for a clear journey .How far away are they?"

Gorthek glanced back. "See for yourself. I'd say about half a mile."

Grim nodded. "Half a mile looks about right to me. At their pace, they'll reach this pass in about twenty minutes."

"What do you reckon, kill them?" asked Gorthek.

"Aye," replied Grim. "Korgan should be here in a few minutes, then we can make a proper plan."

Gorthek snorted. "We've got forty warriors. There's not much room for elaborate plans there."

"There's enough. Besides, they're only Grobi."

"Even Goblins can kill when there's two hundred of them," came a voice from behind them.

Gorthek turned. Korgan was standing in the center of the trail, his rune-hammer slung over his shoulder. The Thane had donned sturdy armour for the journey, thick leathers under a mail jerkin. Too much armour would be too restrictive for mountaineering. Korgan's grumbling about having to leave his prized suit of gromril armour behind was one of the reasons that Gorthek had gone on ahead.

"Four of them to every one of us, Korgan. Not really in their favour, is it?" said Gorthek.

Korgan grunted. "That's no reason to go behaving recklessly, though, is it? Leave that to the manlings. Look what happened to them – all over the place now, wars everywhere, half of them turned to Chaos. It's all because they don't take enough time over things."

Grim pointed to the approaching Goblins with his crossbow. "It doesn't look like they're going to give us much time though, Thane, so a little haste might not go amiss."

Korgan nodded. "Aye." He looked left, across the side of the mountain. "Grim, do you think you and your Rangers could climb across there? You'd have a perfect vantage point, and they wouldn't be able to get you easily."

Grim looked at the small, broken ridge thoughtfully. "I think we might be able to. It's a little thin, so we'd be single file, double at most, but we have rope and gear, so we'd be able to get down the face if we needed."

"Good," nodded Korgan. "The warriors and I will be forming up just down this rise, with the quarrellers on the top. They'll have a clear field of fire over our heads, and we'll have a height advantage. Plus, we won't be able to be surrounded, with these mountains around us."

"What about me?" asked Gorthek.

"You aren't part of this force, Gorthek, not officially, so I can't order you. I'd like you to guard the quarrellers, though. We won't be able to protect them once we're engaged from the front, and I'm not completely discounting the chance that these Grobi could get around us. It's not likely, but I'll not be the Thane to lose his force because of an oversight."

Gorthek hefted his axe. "I see your logic, but I would be much more useful of the front line. Send some of your warriors to guard the quarrellers." _And let me find a proper death_, he almost added.

Korgan shook his head. "No. I don't know you, and I don't know how you fight. You're unpredictable, Slayer, and against this many Goblins, I need Dwarves I can depend on beside me."

Gorthek sighed. There would be no arguing with Korgan. Gorthek had encountered Dwarves like him before, and knew that the Thane would sooner die than change his mind once he had decided on something. "Fine, Thane. I'll hold the rear."

Korgan nodded. "Good. The rest will be here any minute. Get to your positions. Grim, when the Goblins reach us, I want your Rangers to take out targets of opportunity. Leaders and the like, you know the drill. Keep them moving towards us."

"Hammer and anvil," said Grim approvingly. "We'll drive them on, Thane, don't worry."

The warriors appeared behind the three amongst a clattering rustle of armour and heavy footfalls. They were equipped with sturdy shields and broad hand axes, and all of them wore heavy armour that shone in the weak mountain sunlight. Their progress up the mountains had been slow, weighed down as they were with their armour and weapons, but there was still almost a month to go until the appointed time for Gorthek's duel with the vampire.

Behind them marched the quarrellers, steel crossbows held in two-handed grips across their chests, heavy leathers creaking softly as they moved. A good crossbow couldn't be beaten. Gorthek had been a quarreller before he had taken the Slayer Oath, and he still felt a connection with them.

Still, he had his axe now. That was all he needed. The rune-engraved greataxe was centuries old, forged at the hands of one of the greatest Runelords of Kazad Vulkhrund. It held dire runes of power, and its blade remained razor sharp even now.

Abruptly, he realised that the warriors were past him, forming up into a block, ten wide, touching each of the steep sides of the trail. The quarrellers were just in front of him, testing their views and sights, and placing the first bolts in their weapons.

Gorthek grunted, and walked up the slope, standing behind the quarrellers. He had a clear view of the area, and he could see the first touches of green around the twisting trail as the Goblins approached. A few moments more, and the swarming mass of greenskins had filled the trail, rushing madly up at the Dwarves as though they had always known of their presence.

Gorthek raised a hand to shade his eyes, and he could just make out the leader of the Goblins. It was a shaman, clad in bones and furs, and holding a gnarled staff topped with a Goblin skull. That any race could so willingly exploit their own dead was repulsive to him, and the Slayer shuddered as arcs of crackling green energy began to flare around the head of the staff.

He tapped the closest quarreller on the shoulder, and the Dwarf turned. "See that Shaman?" Gorthek asked, pointing down into the horde.

The quarreller nodded. "Aye, there in the center. You want us to shoot him, right?"

Gorthek shook his head. "Grim and his Rangers can handle that. Look just behind the Shaman."

The quarreller squinted forwards, then spat. "Fanatics. Where did they come from? They only usually come with the Night Goblins."

"I don't care where they came from," said Gorthek. "Just make sure you get them. Korgan and the warriors can deal with the other Goblins, but those fanatics will make a real mess of the shieldwall."

The quarreller nodded, and turned to pass the word on. Gorthek looked back at the Goblins. They had finally entered the range of Grim's Rangers, and the sharp snap of crossbows echoed across the pass. Bright flashed streaked into the Goblins, most falling short of the Shaman. Ranging shots, Gorthek knew, although the Goblins seemed to take heart at the Dwarves' misses, and surged forwards.

The next volley was more accurate, and Gorthek saw a dozen Goblins around the Shaman fall to the floor, their screams lost under the shouts and cries of the other Goblins. Undeterred, the horde rushed on, trampling the bodies of their fallen in their rush to reach the Dwarves. _Goblins aren't usually this crazed_, thought Gorthek. _But what's driving them?_

The Rangers got one last volley off, eight separate quarrels piercing the Shaman and throwing it backwards under the feet of the other Goblins. It was quickly lost to view, but the horde didn't even falter in its charge. _Something is wrong… Those Goblins should be fleeing at the loss of their leader._

And then the Goblins reached the shieldwall, throwing themselves into it with a clattering smash. Their dirty weapons hacked downwards in a ragged series of uneven blows, but each strike was blocked by the Dwarves' shields. The warriors gave a step back, and then pushed forwards, their axes striking out at the Goblins. The greenskins fell backwards with a screech, and the Dwarves moved forwards again, shields raised.

The air around Gorthek was filled with the sharp snap of crossbows firing, and he realised that the Fanatics had come in range of the quarrellers. Twenty bolts lashed out at the Goblins, whipping down to plunge into a half-dozen black-robed Goblins. The Grobi fell, their massive ball-and-chain weapons lying forgotten on the floor.

Gorthek smiled grimly. A couple more volleys like that, and the Fanatics would be gone. Then the quarrellers would be free to concentrate of the other Goblins.

Part 6 

The shieldwall was bending backwards under the Goblins' relentless assault. The Dwarves cut down the greenskins at every opportunity, but the tide never seemed to end. The rear rank of the warriors was almost to the quarrellers.

Crossbow bolts knifed over the warriors and into the midst of the Goblins. There were so many greenskins that aiming was redundant; no matter where the bolts fell they would hit something. The quarrellers fired as fast as they could, one rank firing while another reloaded, keeping up a constant hail of steel bolts.

There were far more than two hundred. That many at least lay dead on the ground, trampled beneath the crushing weight of the Goblin advance. Dark blood ran thick down the slope of the trail, littered with gore and viscera. Here and there, a Dwarf lay, overcome by the smothering numbers, already stripped of his equipment by the scavenging Goblins.

Gorthek hefted his axe. He couldn't just stand at the back and watch the warriors die. Bellowing a war cry, the Slayer charged down the hill, barrelling through the rear ranks of warriors, Dwarves that had been rotated out of combat for a moment. He lifted his axe high, pushing past a grey-bearded warrior, and smashed it down into a Goblin, almost beheading the creature as the runic blade sliced through skin and bone like paper.

He wrenched his axe free, and batted away a pair of greenskins that had sought to take advantage of his distraction. The sun shone from the blade of his axe as it arced around to carve through the chests of the two Goblins, flinging them roughly backwards into the press. Gorthek ducked low, avoiding a slash for his head, and whipped his axe upwards into his newest attacker. The blade sliced into the Goblin's guts, and putrid filth sprayed from the mortal wound, coating Gorthek's arm.

The Slayer grimaced, and smashed another Goblin from its feet with a backhanded blow. He dodged right, and found himself standing next to Korgan. The Thane was laying about himself with his rune-hammer, the massive head of the weapon pulverising chests and heads wherever it struck. Silver runes blazed with power as the weapon slew, and it left a flaming afterimage after it.

The Thane glanced at Gorthek. "What are you doing here?" he roared over the din. "You're supposed to be guarding the quarrellers!"

Gorthek hacked his axe down into another Goblin, and ripped it free in a welter of gore. "The danger is here, Korgan! The quarrellers will all die if this line is not held!"

Korgan grunted, and caved in a Goblin's skull with a heavy swing. "Just get killing!" shouted the Thane.

Gorthek grinned, and chopped his axe sideways, almost splitting a Goblin in half. The creature was dead before it hit the ground, Gorthek's axe exploding from its waist in a fountain of blood, before coming up to parry a stab for the Slayer's head. Gorthek grunted as he felt a serrated blade slide into his thigh, biting deep into muscle. He dropped to one knee, and headbutted his new assailant. The Goblin fell backwards, and Gorthek decapitated it with a wide swing.

He backed away, his axe flashing out in a dazzling pattern, blocking, parrying and killing in a web of deadly steel. Goblins fell dead before him, their blood slicking his skin and matting his tall flame-orange hair.

It was then that the first Fanatics began to whirl, their drug-induced strength allowing them to lift their huge weapons easily. They span around, ball-and-chains whipping through other Goblins that had been too close, smashing aside everything with their momentum and speed. The Fanatics began to move, spinning drunkenly around, most heading towards the Dwarven shieldwall. Gorthek saw two whirl back into the ranks of the Goblins, killing scores before they were piled upon and buried beneath a writhing mound of greenskins.

The others, a half-dozen, hurtled towards the Dwarves. The shieldwall would not stop their weapons; the sheer weight and speed of them would bat aside Dwarf and shield as if they were toys. Gorthek raised his axe high into the air.

"Fanatics!" he cried.

Korgan looked up, and then nodded. "Surround them!" The Thane lifted his hammer high and charged at the nearest Fanatic.

And then the first Fanatic hit the Dwarf lines. There was an almighty crash, and bodies flew high into the air, tossed about like rag dolls by the Fanatic's weapon. A shout came up from the Dwarves, and the heavy-armoured warriors closed in around the spinning Goblin. They ducked under its weapon, hacking their axes down into the chain and sending the iron ball plunging down into the ground. The Fanatic started to swing it once more, but it the Dwarves closed in, their axes ending its life instantly.

Gorthek charged through the ranks, coming face to face with a Fanatic. He threw himself to the ground as its huge weapon arced through the air above him. The Fanatic's insane cackle sounded above him, and he rolled to the side. He looked up in time to see a Goblin smashed from its feet by the Fanatic's ball-and-chain, the crack of broken bones whipping through the air.

Gorthek hauled himself to his feet, and then had to dive backwards again as the Fanatic's weapon whirled round at him once more. The wind stung his face in the wake of the giant iron ball, but the Slayer dug his feet in and remained upright despite his dodge. Once the ball had passed, Gorthek roared and charged forwards, grabbing one of the Goblin's bony wrists and halting its spin. Though the Goblin had stopped, its weapon did not, and its momentum carried it around Gorthek and the Goblin twice before it dug itself into the earth.

He grunted as the thick chain wrapped itself around him. It tightened on his chest, pinning the Fanatic to him, crushing his lungs. Every breath burned beneath his ribs, and he felt as if he was suffocating, suffocating under the unbearable tightness. Gorthek gasped, and the Goblin was torn in two by the chain, its body unable to resist the pressure. Hot, wet gore drenched Gorthek as the Goblin slithered down him.

He used the momentary slackness granted him by the Goblin's death, and hewed upwards with his axe, shearing the chain in two. The heavy iron links writhed to the floor like a clinking metal snake, kicking up coppery red dust.

Gorthek paused, gulping down breath after breath, trying to get his lungs to work again. Dimly, he heard a voice behind him.

"Slayer! Wolf Riders!"

It was Korgan. The stubborn Thane had survived, then. Gorthek glanced around, and almost had his eye taken out by a Goblin blade. In his exhaustion after the fight with the Fanatic, he had forgotten that the rest of the battle was still raging. He chopped off his assailant's arms at the elbows, then disembowelled the shrieking greenskin. The putrid stench of death choked his nostrils.

The Wolf Riders. Gorthek glanced around, taking stock of the situation. There were precious few Dwarves left; perhaps a score at most, including the quarrellers. Most had been killed by the Fanatics, and the rest had been pulled down by the swarming Grobi.

There! At the back! Green dots atop grey streaks rounded the curve at the base of the trail, heading up into the rear of the quarrellers. Gorthek started forwards, slaughtering his way through the fight, but the quarrellers had noticed the new threat, and turned to face it.

They formed a disciplined, albeit battered, firing line, and flight after flight of steel bolts lashed out into the Wolf Riders. Goblins were punched from their saddles and wolves were staggered by the powerful impacts. The semi-disciplined charge of the Grobi was broken in the first two salvoes, the Wolves snarling and snapping at each other, and their riders bickering and hiding from the deadly bolts.

There were too many for bolts alone, though. Over twenty Wolf Riders made it to the quarrellers, and they barrelled into their firing line, trampling their way past. Goblins struck downwards with their spears, finding weak points in the quarrellers' lighter armour. Dwarves fell all around, and now the Wolf Riders had broken formation, circling the fight like sharks, charging in and out.

Gorthek gave a shout as the last quarreller died, and he saw the Wolf Riders turn to him. One, who he presumed to be their leader, stood up on top of his saddle, raising a curved sword to the sky. "Kill the Dwarf!" screeched the Goblin.

The Wolf Riders reacted instantly, leaping into action with a chorus of vicious snarls and shouts. Gorthek raised his axe, settling his feet wide apart on the ground. He was a Slayer. His would be a mighty doom, not an anonymous death at the hands of Goblins and their wolves.


	8. In the Halls of Night Part 7

Part 7

"Wolf Riders to the rear!" shouted Gorthek.

As soon as the words had left his mouth he stepped forwards, bringing his axe around in a horizontal slash that caved in the side of a wolf's head. The animal collapsed to the side, throwing its screaming rider off and under the trampling feet of the others.

Gorthek blocked a sweeping strike at his face, and his axe smashed into the back of another wolf, dragging it down to the ground, whining and snapping at him. He ducked under the flailing rider, and winced as he felt a thin blade pierce the muscle at the back of his shoulder.

He shook the Goblin off, and rose, bringing his axe up in a bloody arc, cleaving the Grobi from navel to forehead. It fell backwards, dead instantly, as its organs fell to the ground amidst a wash of thin blood.

He was surrounded. The Wolf Riders had rushed past him, and turned, leaving him inside a circle of snapping teeth and cackling Grobi. A wolf darted in, biting at him, and he drove it back with a hasty slash. He grimaced. All they had to do was wait for him to tire.

Fortunately, Goblins weren't known for their patience.

Three of them leapt at him at once. He stepped forwards, past the slavering jaws and flickering blade of one, and smashed his axe into the head of the center wolf, stopping it dead in its tracks. The rider flew over his head, carried by the wolf's momentum, and Gorthek whirled, lashing out with his axe and opening up a ragged gash in its ruddy green skin.

His breath left his mouth in a sharp gasp as the jaws of the third wolf closed on his left arm, biting deep and almost tearing the limb from its socket. Pain flared through him, and he aimed an awkward blow at the creature that only succeeded in removing its ear. It growled at him around the bloody flesh of is arm. Its rider leaned forwards, its blade poised to strike at the Slayer's face.

And then a crimson shape flashed down from the cliff, almost faster than Gorthek's eyes could follow, eviscerating wolf and Goblin alike with one slash of its sword. It didn't pause in its motion, and moved forwards instantly, whirling around, sword flashing out to cleave two Goblins from their saddles, before its foot lashed out and sent their mounts flying backwards.

It paused for a moment, and Gorthek got a look at it. A flowing, torn red cape shrouded a figure encased in dirty steel armour. Greasy black hair trailed in strands down its back, and its eyes were twin orbs of midnight black. Its skin, where it could be seen, was stark, pale white. It straightened to its full height, perhaps six feet, and regarded Gorthek coldly.

It seemed about to speak, when a wolf appeared behind it, leaping at its back. The figure reacted instantly, spinning low and decapitating the wolf with one lazy strike of its blade. It took one last look at Gorthek, and then seemed to vanish, moving with preternatural speed down the slope and into the remaining Wolf Riders.

Gorthek stood immobile, struggling to make sense of hat he had just witnessed. He looked down the slope, and saw that the figure had been joined by nine others, dark swords rising and falling in bloodstained arcs through the Goblin horde. Korgan and his Warriors were falling back, watching the newcomers butcher the Goblins.

Abruptly, Gorthek realised that the dead Goblins were standing back up, animated by some fearsome power. He watched in mute horror as they fell on their living kin, stabbing clumsily with their weapons. Their movements were slow, uncoordinated, and even the Goblins were able to kill them easily, but every living thing they killed rose again to join their ranks.

Vampires! The ten figures had to be vampires. It was the only explanation. His left arm hanging limply by his side, Gorthek dashed down to Korgan. He reached the Thane just as the ten vampires finished off the Goblins. As the two Dwarves watched in silence, the ten figures stood, the wind whipping at their cloaks and hair. Gorthek felt a chill pass through him, an echo of some power, and the reanimated army of Goblins died as one, falling bonelessly to the ground.

The figures approached the Dwarves. Gorthek readied his axe. If he was to die, then these creatures would be worthy foes. They stopped, a dozen feet from the Dwarves, and one stepped forwards. Gorthek recognised it as the one that had saved him from the Wolf Riders. In a low, smooth voice, it began to speak.

"We have no quarrel with you, Dwaves," it said. "We simply wish to pass through this area. The Goblins would not understand such, and so we were forced to kill them. You, however, are a civilised people. By your own standards, we have done you a service here, and all we ask in repayment is to pass through here. Know that, if it comes to it, you would not be able to stand against us, but we do not wish to fight meaninglessly. It is not honourable."

Korgan cleared his throat. "You speak truth, newcomer. You have named your price for the aid you have given, though it was not asked for, and I will not have it said that the Dwarves are ungrateful. You shall have your safe passage. First, though, I would know your identities."

The figure smiled. "We are the Accursed Lords."

And then they were gone, moving northwards up the passage faster than the eye could follow. Gorthek glanced at Korgan.

"Aye," said the Thane in response to the Slayer's glance. "I know not why they did as they did, but they saved us, did they not? To my knowledge, they have never harmed us, and their actions put us in their debt. Safe passage was a small price."

Gorthek sighed. "I suppose you are right, Korgan. It wasn't like we could have harmed them anyway, if we had denied them. I saw their strength first hand, and I am certain that we would all have perished." He looked around bitterly at the few remaining Dwarves. "All fourteen of us."

Korgan gestured at the dead Goblins littering the trail. There were over a thousand. "If ten can kill a thousand Grobi in barely five minutes, then I doubt that fourteen Dwarves would give them much trouble."

Scree tumbled down the cliff as Grim and his Rangers descended towards the others. They were as battered as the others, having been subjected to volley after volley of shortbow fire from the Goblins. Only four survived, beside Grim himself.

Gorthek hailed them over. "Grim," he called, "They were kin to my quarry, I am certain. They must go to join him. Can you track them?"

Grim thought for a moment. "It'll be difficult, at their speed," he said, finally. "I think I can manage, though. We'd best get started quickly."

Korgan stepped between the two. "Not yet. First, we bury our dead. I'll not allow the dead to lie here for the elements to claim if I can help it."

Gorthek bowed his head. "Of course," he said.


	9. The Hunt Parts 1 to 2

**_Chapter 3: The Hunt_**

Part 1

Shallaeran stared down at the slivery waters, lost in her thoughts. Silence ghosted across the air. Serenity seemed to radiate from the tall trees of the glade. No angst was permitted in the Glade of Reflection.

The water of the large pool was still. No ripples marred its perfect, mirror like surface. The pool was enchanted by the most skilful spellweavers of the Loartha Kinband to remain undisturbed in even the harshest conditions, a liquid mirror. It showed whoever gazed into its depths their true thoughts, from deep within their minds.

Shallaeran stared down, and saw death.

The vampire haunted her mind. Its words stalked her thoughts. She closed her eyes. It was dead. She kept telling herself that, but still it remained, filling her mind with despair. It was dead. She had killed it.

A slight whisper of sound behind her drew her attention away from her thoughts and back to reality. She turned slowly, composing herself, schooling her features to blankness.

A tall Elf stood under the vine-wreathed arch that marked the entrance of the glade. Black hair hung to his waist in a fine wave, like liquid silk, pulled back from his soft features by a black band nestled amongst the spill of hair. A grey cloak trailed from his lithe shoulders, and light armour encased his torso in folds of supple cloth and segmented layers of enchanted wood. He arched one thin eyebrow.

"Are you still troubled by what happened, Shallaeran Nihsurae?"

She bowed her head respectfully. "I am, Domnue. I sought to find solace in the glade."

"And?" he asked, stepping closer.

"If anything, I am more troubled. My mind is a labyrinth, noble, and I know not how to escape."

The noble nodded solemnly. "I understand. It is difficult to witness your companions slain before your eyes, but you must learn to harden your heart against such despair. The world waits for no one, Shallaeran, and despair at such a time as this could have far-reaching consequences."

Shallaeran took a last glance back at the pool, and then walked to the archway. "I thank you, Domnue. You speak truth. Was this the purpose of your presence here, or did you seek me out for some other reason?"

Domnue walked slowly past her, making no sound as he moved. It was a trait learned early amongst the kindreds of the Nymraif, the Waywatchers. He paused at her shoulder. "You are summoned by Lord Helioran, within the hall."

She nodded in acquiescence. "Thank you for informing me, Domnue." She stepped past him, and into the forest. Though she heard the sense in the noble's words, that icy core of despair still clutched her heart. The vampire's alabaster face still lurked at the back of her mind, fangs dripping with the lifeblood of her companions, her friends.

She shook her head, banishing the images from her mind. She had to focus. She couldn't afford to give in to distraction and fear. Now she was away from the magically soothing aura of the pool, though, she felt her doubts return. She had seen the beast take an arrow in the side of its skull without pausing. Nothing should be able to survive that, much less kill two more Asrai. Nothing natural.

She reached the base of the immense tree that formed the hall. Stepping close to it, she traced the patterns carved into the bark with one finger. Whispers of the elvish tongue fell from her lips, words that she had learned as a child. The runes on the tree shone faintly with a golden light, and then Shallaeran felt the twisting dislocation that accompanied the magic. A moment of discomfort, and then she stood beneath the tree, within the hall.

She looked up, and offered her thanks to the tree for permitting her access. Turning her attention back to the hall, she walked softly into the main chamber. Asrai were gathered around the fire at the centre of the hall, some seated on curving roots emerging from the earthen floor, others standing.

Behind them sat Martach Helioran, arms resting on his throne of living wood. His black hair spilled down over his shoulders, and his eyes were weary as he studied the dancing flames. Flames that never died. Was Helioran seeing a time when there was no one to attend those flames? A time when the Asrai were gone? They were already a dwindling race, and disaster after disaster only served to hasten their descent into extinction.

She stepped between him and the fire, and cleared her throat quietly. He stared through her for a moment, lost in thought, and then his eyes snapped to her, alert once more.

"Shallaeran," he said. "You have come."

She nodded. "You summoned me, Lord Helioran?"

He closed his eyes, sighing softly. "We are in dark times, Shallaeran. The incident that you were involved in was no isolated event."

"There were more?" she gasped. There couldn't be more. That spoke of more than a raid. It spoke of an invasion, a war.

"All along the Grey Mountains," said Helioran. "The undead assail the forests, led by vampiric masters. Four thralls such as that which you killed have been brought to battle, and three have been killed."

Her heart clenched. "Then there is a vampire roaming Athel Loren still?"

"Not anymore," said a harsh voice, and Shallaeran turned to see who had spoken.

A tall, female Elf with midnight-black hair falling to the back of her thighs stood by the fire. She was clad in rough garb, mottled browns and greys that seemed to flow together. A huge, double-handed blade was sheathed over her shoulder. She held the severed, withered head of a vampire in her hand.

"I found this beast south of the Tears of Isha. It was heading towards the Wildwood." She tossed the head into the fire.

Helioran leaned forwards. "Dominae. I had not thought to see you. Have you come to see your brother?"

Her lips twisted. "Domnue is my concern, Helioran. I am simply here to deliver the head of a foe. I know what you intend."

Helioran frowned. "And how did you come by this knowledge, Dominae?"

"The forest has many eyes and ears, Helioran. Nothing is secret from Athel Loren."

Shallaeran stepped forwards slightly. "Lord Helioran, what is this action that Dominae speaks of?"

Helioran looked at her. "This threat to Athel Loren cannot be allowed to grow. For this reason, I am sending a party out across the Mountains, in order to ascertain the nature and intent of our enemy."

She fought the despair rising in her. "And this is why you have summoned me?"

"Yes," he nodded. "You have first hand experience of the vampires. You shall accompany the force. Domnue will lead it."

Dominae nodded slowly. "Then that is where I go. I have business with my brother, and I will not allow a few vampires to disrupt it."

Helioran sighed. "I have no power over you any longer, and all her know it. I would not prevent you, but I would ask you not to harm the chances of the party with your personal business. Discretion will be required, especially once they are across the Mountains."

Dominae bowed her head. "As you wish, Helioran. It is good that you know that you have no authority over the Laith-Kourn." She walked slowly from the hall, slipping through the assembled Wood Elves like liquid shadow.

Shallaeran looked back at Helioran. "Lord-" she began.

He held up one hand. "No, Shallaeran. You have knowledge that is essential. However, your deed also deserves reward."

He reached down behind his throne, and drew out a bow. It was as tall as Shallaeran, recurved, and intricately carved. Golden thread wound its way around the deep brown wood of the bow, and the thread seemed to be spun silver. Bright, gem-studded steel formed a brace at the centre of the bow, two daggerlike guides protruding from the top and bottom of the moulded grip.

Helioran held it out towards her, a cloth-covered quiver in his other hand. "This is Elhorai's Talon. It is a powerful bow, enchanted by the greatest of the Loartha kinband's spellweavers. Take it, and strike down the enemies of Athel Loren."

Shallaeran nodded solemnly, accepting the bow and quiver. "I thank you, Lord Helioran. I shall try to do this weapon justice."

Helioran smiled. "You will, Shallaeran, I know. Now go, prepare. The party leaves at dawn."

* * *

Part 2

_Lahmia, four thousand years ago…_

Varakash dodged frantically, back-pedalling out of range of the massive Ushabti as it swung for him. He slipped around its huge glaive as it clanged down onto the floor, and stabbed his sword into the strangely flesh like stone of its knee.

The sword tip penetrated barely an inch, and then stuck fast, gripped by the ensorcelled stone as the Ushabti crouched. It ripped its weapon from the slabs, and stood, a silent obelisk of death. Varakash threw himself sideways, rolling to his feet behind it as it exploded into movement, slashing around towards him.

He ducked under the arcing glaive, and rolled, snatching his sword from the construct's knee. He came up from his roll in front of it, and hacked his sword into its knee again, chips of living stone falling to the floor under his attack. The Ushabti kicked out heavily, its massive foot catching Varakash full in the chest and throwing him backwards down the street.

Varakash hit the stone wall of the building behind him, and fell to the floor, the breastplate of his armour bent out of shape where the Ushabti had kicked him. Winded, he gasped for breath, picking himself up from the floor unsteadily. He had to have at least two broken ribs from that. Gods, but they were strong!

He looked up at the construct. It was down on one knee, glaring at him from the floor. Its injured leg had to have given way after the kick. Varakash grimaced at the Ushabti. It had been a challenging opponent.

He stepped close to it, remaining just out of range of its weapon. He spoke grimly, not even sure that it could hear him. "Your age is at an end. You have no place in Lahmia after this day."

The Ushabti stared mutely up at him, rage burning in its eyes. Its bestial face twisted in a snarl, and it took a swing at him. Varakash stood still, letting the glaive slice through the air in front of him, and then stepped forwards and in one swift movement rammed his sword up to the hilt between the construct's eyes. It collapsed almost instantly, flakes of stone crumbling to the floor.

Varakash looked down at it sadly as he pulled the sword from its disintegrating head. The Mortuary priests had been a part of Lahmia for centuries. It still seemed impossible to him that they could have rebelled on such a scale. And yet they had. The carnage being wreaked by the rampaging temple warriors spoke for itself.

Varakash broke into a run down the street, heading for the rest of the Ushabti. Some twenty of the constructs and a horde of priests had charged through the streets towards the Palace. They must hope to kill the Queen, though Varakash as he ran. They would never manage it. Neferatem would be guarded by the best of the Queen's Guard, including Lord Abhorash himself, along with her other advisors. Ushoran and Vashanesh were nearly as accomplished in the martial disciplines as Abhorash himself, and the rumours placed W'soran as the most powerful mage in the city.

Together with the Queen's Guard, they would destroy the priests before they passed the gates.

Varakash rounded a corner and found himself facing a massive battle. The Ushabti and priests had engaged a force of nearly a hundred Guards, and the clamour of steel against steel, blades cutting into flesh, and the roar of enraged combatants filled the air.

The colossal black shapes of the Ushabti towered above the melee, cutting down Guards with heavy strokes from their huge weapons. Around them clustered the priests, black robed forms clutching at knives and staffs, darting in to strike before dodging back behind the Ushabti. The Queen's Guard fought professionally, striking at the Ushabti with long spears while sword-armed warriors fought off the priests.

At the center of the battle, Varakash caught sight of a gore-streaked form, darting to and fro, a massive sword arcing up and down, each stroke ending a life. He saw the figure spin and hack wildly at the arm of an Ushabti. The construct's forearm shattered under the blow, its glaive falling from crumbling fingers, and the figure hacked the Ushabti's head from its shoulders with a heavy slash.

Varakash caught sight of the figure's face as it turned to find another opponent. Merovar. He should have known.

Varakash charged into the melee, sword held high, the sun reflecting from his polished armour. He was a flash of devastating light as he fell upon the priests at the edge of the battle, his sword slashing frenziedly as he ran, delivering a single, mortal wound to each he passed.

He left a trail of death in his wake, dead or dying priests clutching at horrible wounds and screaming in agony. He strove forwards, headed for the center of the battle, where the remaining Ushabti were clustered. The constructs were forcing a path through the Guards, fifteen Ushabti crushing all who came before them.

Varakash was upon them like a thunderbolt, diving forwards and slashing his sword across the hamstrings of the closest Ushabti with all his strength. The steel sliced through the living stone and the construct fell to its knees. Varakash was past it, headed for the next, as it was swarmed by spear-wielding Guards.

A great cry went up from the Guards as they saw him, a hundred voices raised in a ragged cheer; "The White Warrior is here!"

Varakash did not acknowledge the cry, and dodged sideways, barely avoiding a looping strike from a heavy bronze staff. He whipped his sword sideways across the midriff of the priest, and kicked the man backwards. Varakash sidestepped fluidly as an Ushabti's glaive arced downwards towards him, and the weapon struck the slabs with a dull clang.

Varakash snarled and attacked, striking high at the construct's head. His sword was batted aside by a huge arm, and Varakash barely managed to dodge a powerful backhand aimed for his face. He began another blow, but was yanked to the floor as something caught the ornate wing of his shoulder guard.

He looked around, dazed, and found another Ushabti standing above him, glaive held ready to deliver the deathblow. It must have hit his shoulder after his frantic dodge. He rolled desperately, and the glaive crashed to the ground next to him. A Guard leaped in and thrust with a spear, driving the Ushabti back and giving Varakash the time to stand.

He nodded his thanks to the Guard, and launched into a frenzied attack. His sword slashed in all directions, striking chips from the construct's stone body. He concentrated on the creature's arms and legs, seeking to disable it. He ducked a swing for his head, and stabbed his sword into the Ushabti's leg, just above the knee.

He felt the sword bite deep into the construct, and then the Ushabti buckled. Varakash barely got his sword out before it was snapped in two by the construct's bending leg. He spun on his heel and lashed out, carving the Ushabti's head in two.

He looked around in the lull. The remaining Ushabti had pushed through the combat, and were barely a hundred meters from the palace gates. All would be lost unless they were stopped. Not even Abhorash could halt ten Ushabti at once.

Varakash began to run, catching sight of Merovar to his left. The two pushed their way through the melee, rushing towards the Ushabti. They had to get there before the gates were breached. Merovar's black hair whipped in his wake as the warrior hacked his way through the melee, the antithesis of Varakash's cool, methodical strikes.

A group of priests appeared before Varakash, swarming him with stabbing blades. As he brought his sword around in a desperate block, he saw a pair of priests tackle Merovar to the ground. And then Varakash hissed loudly as a dagger slammed into his breastplate, in the same spot that the Ushabti had kicked. The impact grated his broken ribs together, and the sudden, scraping pain in his chest almost made him drop his sword.

Before he could recover, he was pushed to the ground by the priests, daggers scraping off his vambraces and shoulder guards. He hit the bloodstained stones hard, and gasped as the air was driven from his lungs.

Gritting his teeth, he punched his fist upwards as hard as he could, feeling rather than hearing the crunching impact of his armoured gauntlet against a priest's unprotected face. He lashed out again, backhanding another in the side of his head, and pistoned his knee into the groin of a third.

He fought to one knee, and levered his sword around. Now he had his weapon ready, the priests were more wary, hesitating over attacking him. He took the matter out of their hands, and leapt forwards, the sword point slicing neatly through the throat of the center priest before continuing on to bite deep into the shoulder of the man beside him.

Varakash wrenched his blade free as the man screamed in agony, clutching at his shoulder, and twisted it down to parry a stab from his left. His attacker fought to retract his knife, but he was not fast enough, and Varakash's blade hit him with enough force to nearly decapitate him on the spot.

He tumbled sideways to the ground, and Varakash bolted past the remaining priests. They were mere distractions, to allow the Ushabti to do as much damage as possible. The constructs were the real threat here.

The palace doors – huge, iron-bound wood ten times the height of a man, and wide enough for a mounted column to pass through with room to spare – crashed open, slamming off the white stone walls of the gatehouse, and a shining figure walked slowly out. Elaborately-worked steel plates armoured his powerful form, and he had eschewed a helm, letting his thick, long black hair hang down his back. His features were aristocratic, aloof, and his eyes burned with barely-contained rage.

Abhorash fell upon the advancing Ushabti with inhuman speed, his massive blade flashing out in a blur, severing stone limbs and shattering torsos. A cold smile twisted his features as he fought, dodging around the constructs' attacks effortlessly before his sword whipped out once more and a massive stone head fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Varakash raced towards the combat, pushing past Guards and priests alike. Even Abhorash, for all his deadly skill, could not defeat the twelve remaining Ushabti alone.

Abhorash dodged around a heavy overhead blow, and trapped the glaive beneath his armoured boot. His sword smashed through the Ushabti's wrists, and then he thundered his fist into its face. The blow fell with a strength Varakash would not have thought possible, and Abhorash's fist drove through the construct's face, exploding from the back of its head in a shower of stone. He tore his hand free and spun in a blur, slashing one-handed with his sword to slice the legs from another Ushabti.

And then a pair of massive glaives struck simultaneously for his back. He sensed them somehow, and twisted around one, his sword flickering out of its own volition and spearing the jackal-headed Ushabti through the chest, but the other glaive hacked down into his back. The huge weapon punched through his armour, and the black metal of the blade carved through flesh and bone alike, emerging from the front of his chest in a welter of blood and gore. It drove him to the floor, impaled on the weapon.

Varakash screamed in rage as he finally reached the Ushabti, moments too late. His sword whipped around, powered by all his anger, and slashed through the construct's hamstrings, dropping it to its knees. Its hands still gripped the glaive, and Abhorash let out a stricken groan as the weapon twisted within him. Varakash dodged an attack by another Ushabti, and stabbed Abhorash's killer in the eye.

The construct crumbled as it died, and it finally released its weapon. Varakash dashed towards Abhorash, but was cut off by a pair of Ushabti. Their massive weapons arced towards him, and he threw himself to the floor frantically, feeling the wind from their passage on his neck. He landed in a roll, and slashed backwards blindly. He felt his sword bite into something, and then he was on his feet, turning to face the Ushabti.


End file.
